The Empire that fell for me this weekend, is Wimbledon.
I should have photoshopped this a bit. Maybe make the leaves appear withered and brown. Unfortunately, my photoshop skills are- to put it mildly- very limited.
But it should look more like Rivendell. Like late Autumn. You can still see it, still standing, but you just know the glory days are over.
I'm not talking about Rafa going out in round 2. Upsets happen, even to the best. Especially on grass courts, the most difficult surface to play tennis. I'm not even talking about the weather- it rained in Wimbledon before. But there was still glory. There was excitement. There was that aura of the best players meeting on grass.
Even the uniforms. Wimbledon is the only tournament where officials really look like officials.
2012, the year when Wimbledon sank like Atlantis in a stormy night coupled with an earthquake and a tsunami.
It started well enough, but during the first week, the Wimbledon i used to watch so many times got shut down, and they somehow started a new tournament. It vanished overnight, as if it never had been there, and the ruins left stared back at me when i opened Tennis TV the next day: there it was. Wimblahdon.
Wimbledumbdon. Wimbledamp. Maybe even Wimbleswamp? I'm not taking any credit for those names (chuckle). I will add the approbiate link for the blog of the genius who found all those new names for ex- Wimbledon at the bottom. Credit where credit is due.
Roger Federer won Wimblechdon. Really? At first, i thought it must have been @pseudofed. I mean, why would Roger even want to win Blahdon? Should have handed it to Andy Murray on a silver plate. At least, this would have made some sense to me.
Maybe this is not really a blog- its a swan song. Good- bye, Wimbledon. We had some good years. I enjoyed them a lot. I enjoyed them in sunshine and rain. I enjoyed watching the greats on grass. When umpires were judges, when linesmen (and women) could actually see the lines, when players were the gladiators, when good ol' tradition was good ol' tradition- yes, we know its silly. But its tradition.
Nothing is for eternity. Time to move on. Time for a disrooted tennis heart to find a new home.
New balls, please.
And the prize for Blahdon goes to: click me
